


Checks and Balances

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon, Drama, Points of View
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-07
Updated: 2004-02-07
Packaged: 2018-12-27 15:23:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12083832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: An adaptation of "Weapon" by nortylaK. It borrows from the dialoge and story, but is told from Justin's, not Brian's, POV. Read together, they make a good pair.





	Checks and Balances

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

“Are you coming?”

“Where?”

_Where._ You always conveniently evade. Avoid.

“Lunch. With my mom. Remember?”

“Oh, right. Lunch with the family, so she can ask me a million questions and tell me to get out of your life again.”

My mom wouldn’t do that to you now. Ever since you took me back after I got hit, she’s become tolerant—even supportive—of our relationship. She’s beginning to understand that all you want is to take care of me.

You still need to be convinced of that. But today I’m not in the mood to argue.

“Basically,” I humor.

“And why should I do that?”

“Because we’re together.”

“We _fuck_.”

I exhale and stare as you lean against the far window and light a cigarette. _More denial._ But I know better than to draw attention to the fact. You do exactly what you want; loving you means letting you. 

“Fine. I’ll ask Daphne instead. See you tonight.”

“Justin--”

“Later.”

I shrug off the exchange as I amble down the dim stairwell and into the midday sun. I can’t help but chuckle softly to myself, contemplating the irony: for a man with such an intense aversion to bullshit, Brian can be so full of it sometimes. It can be so infuriating. Still, I know that his declarations of indifference are as empty as Ethan’s declarations of love had been. That’s why I had to come back.

...

After a long afternoon with Mom and Daph, I return to the loft late, expecting to see Brian working at the computer, or maybe getting dressed to go to Babylon. I slide open the door and am greeted by a dark, empty room. Something’s not right. I feel a chill in the air as I set my keys on the counter.

“Brian?” I call out, and I walk toward the bathroom, circling back through the bedroom and finally back into the living room, where I find you sitting slouched in a chair, still by the open window, undressed and shivering.

_Have you been sitting like this all day?_

“Brian. What’re you doing?”

You don’t answer. Right hand dangling by your leg, cigarette threatening to sear your skin. I see the length of glowing ash and reach to take it from your hand, smashing it into the ash tray.

“Brian, what the fuck?” 

You blink and look upward into my face, and you’re frowning because you think I don’t understand what the hell’s going on or why you’re sitting here like this, with your fingers burned and skin freezing.

Seeing you this way—a stark, physical image of the melancholy you try so hard to smother—makes me want to cry. It’s a version of the same naked vulnerability I felt compelled to capture on paper, back in the beginning. Everyone at the gallery who’d seen that drawing had thought it was just that—a very good rendering of a very attractive, well-endowed man, naked, sleeping. They hadn’t caught the paradox, that juxtaposition. Strength and insecurity coexisting in one person.

You think I don’t understand. That’s the problem. You don’t really _get_ that I love you and that I understand what you are. You think I’m so different from you.

As frustrating and painful as that is, it’s also endearing.

I take the throw from the edge of the other remaining chair and drape it over your legs, rubbing my hands over you to warm you up.

“How long’ve you been sitting here?”

You shrug.

“Is there a reason?”

Shrug again, this time turning your face away from me. You don’t like feeling like this, especially not around other people.

Especially not around me.

I know you’re a long way from being able to verbalize the thoughts I always see struggling behind your eyes. You can’t tell me what’s on your mind because you can’t tell yourself.

I realize that you’re not going to answer, no matter what I say, and so I curl up on your lap, and your arms reach around me. And we sit just like that for a long while, the wind outside hitting the pane glass windows and creating a draft that keeps your skin pricked and sensitive to the air and the occasional kiss. I press my face into your neck and draw my hands softly across your back. 

“You’re not just someone I fuck.”

I start at your veiled admission and catch your eyes, dark and resolute. They fill me with something warm.

“I know,” I say. Your arms wrap around me further.

“Why d’you stay with me?”

Not “why do you _live_ with me.” I take a moment to consider it.

As much as I can complain, I know you’re changing. Because you want to. And you always do exactly what you want.

“Because I love you.”

You close your eyes tightly. Is it too much, too serious and too fucking real for you to handle? Maybe just once, maybe just this once, feeling something wouldn’t be a bad thing. Because I love you; I _love_ you. I have for years. And as much as everything seems to change, you’re still the one I want to be with. I’ll go with you to New York. I’ll go with you anywhere. 

Your eyelids flutter, and you look the way I imagined you in my dreams, all those nights in the hospital, waiting for you to come and wake me up. 

“You shouldn’t,” you tell me.

“I can’t help it.”

“You know I won’t…” You don’t finish.

“I know. I figured that if you were ever gonna say it, it would’ve been right after I got hit. And you never did, so...” 

Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ll never get everything I want from you. But I know I belong with you, and I know you need me. All the rest is bullshit.

You don’t say anything, and I go on.

“Besides, Ethan told me he loved me every day, but that didn’t mean much.”

“No.”

“I think I’m finally realizing that it’s just a bunch of bullshit. Like you said. Fucking’s easier to deal with.”

“Don’t start talking like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like me.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re young. And idealistic. And you shouldn’t talk like you’re thirty and jaded.”

_An offering._

“Are you jaded?”

You don’t answer. That always means yes. You shift and push me off your lap, then stand up and walk towards our bedroom. 

“Does it mean that much to you?” you call back to me.

_Brian._

All I can do is keep trying.

“It’s just words,” I say. “It’s just nice to hear, ‘s all. Like hearing you’re a good fuck. You know you’re good, but it’s nice to hear it once in a while.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Yes again.

“You’re a good fuck,” you say finally. That makes me smile. _You’re trying._ I shake my head and throw my jeans onto the chair. 

I crawl into bed, and you lie next to me. Spread the sheet over my legs, sleep pulling at your eyes. Your arm covers my body, fingers dancing on my wrists.

_I know you wouldn’t do this for anyone else._

I start to drift off, your arms still holding me, protecting me. I feel safe sleeping next to you, knowing you’re watching over me every night.

“I know you love me,” I hear myself murmur, right before I fall asleep in your embrace.


End file.
